The man who gives you a back rub without your permission. The guy who stands a little too close to you on the bus, so close you can smell the alcohol on his breath. The boys who joked and the men who joked and so many jokes but you were never laughing. The jokes you didn't understand because you were too young to understand. The gut punch when you were old enough to finally get what they meant.
I understand that part of this anger is about my own deep wounds. My own story of harm by a mad man--and the perceived betrayal of the otherwise sane people who knew better than to believe a madman and ultimately align with a mad man. This is also what I know about being wounded: there is no greater pain that not being seen. We don't expect a mad man to see or understand our pain. He's not capable of it. But the ones who we know are capable of empathy and love? We except better.
I've long seen my mom in Mary, but it is only now that I realize my mom saw a bit of Mary in me, too. As I went off to college, graduated and moved to bigger cities in states far from home, got my first suit, my first apartment. As she watched me experiencing all the highs and lows that come with tossing your proverbial hat in the air as a single working woman. As she saw me live out some of the Mary Richards' experiences she never had.
Wake up Brush teeth Make coffee (obv) Call congress at 202-225-3121 Send postcard to senators (Send ❤to the sisterhood) (Adapted From Michael Moore's speech at Women's march)
We were made for these times.